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Observations by Mr. Dooley
by Finley Peter Dunne

A Little Essay on Books

"Hogan tells me that wan iv th' first things man done afther he'd
larned to kill his neighborin' animals, an' make a meal iv wan
part iv thim an' a vest iv another, was to begin to mannyfacther
lithrachoor, an' it's been goin' on up to th' prisint day. Thim
was times that th' Lord niver heerd about, but is as well known
to manny a la-ad in th' univarsity iv southren Injyanny as if th'
histhry iv thim was printed on a poster. Hogan says a pro-fissor
with a shovel an' a bad bringin'-up can go out annywhere along th'
dhrainage-canal an' prove to ye that th' Bible is no more thin an
exthry avenin' edition iv th' histhry iv th' wurruld, an' th' Noah
fam'ly was considhered new arrivals in th' neighborhood where they
lived. He says he'll show ye th' earth as though 't was a section
iv a layer-cake or an archytect's dhrawin' iv a flat-buildin', an'
p'int out how 't was accumylated.

"First 't was a mere squdge in which ne'er a livin' thing cud be
found. This peryod lasted a few millyion years, an' thin th' mush
caked an' become buildin'-materyal, an' threes grew out iv th'
buildin'-materyal an' fell down an' become coal. Thin th' wather
come--but where it come fr'm I don't know, f'r they was no God at
th' time--an' covered th' earth, an' thin th' wather evaporated an'
left little p'ints iv land shtickin' up with ready-made men an'
women occypyin' thim, an' at that moment th' Bible begun. Ye might
say we 're livin' on th' roof iv a flat, with all th' apartmints
beneath us occypied be th' bones iv submarine monsthers an' other
tinants.

"Lasteways that's what Hogan tells me, but I don't believe a wurrud
he says. Most iv th' people iv this wurruld is a come-on f'r
science, but I'm not. Ye can't con-vince me, me boy, that a man
who's so near-sighted he can't read th' sign on a cable-car knows
anny more about th' formation iv th' earth thin Father Kelly. I
believe th' wurruld is flat, not round; that th' sun moves an' is
about th' size iv a pie-plate in th' mornin' an' a car-wheel at
noon; an' it 's no proof to me that because a pro-fissor who 's
peekin' through a chube all night says th' stars ar-re millyions
iv miles away an' each is bigger thin this wurruld, that they 're
bigger thin they look, or much higher thin th' top iv th' shot-tower.
I've been up tin thousand feet on a mountain, an' they seemed so
near that I kept whiskin' thim off me nose as I lay there on me
back, but they wasn't anny larger thin they were on th' sthreet-level.
I believe what I see an' some iv th' things I'm told, if they 've
been told often, an' thim facts iv science has not been hung long
enough to be digistible. "But, annyhow, they say that man first
begun writin' whin he had to hammer out his novels an' pomes on a
piece iv rock, an' th' hammer has been th' imblim iv lithrachoor
iver since. Thin he painted it on skins, hince th' publisher;
thin he played it an' danced it an' croshayed it till 't was
discovered that ink an' pa-aper wud projooce wurruds, an' thin th'
printin'-press was invinted. Gunpowdher was invinted th' same
time, an' 't is a question I've often heerd discussed which has
done more to ilivate th' human race. A joke.

Th' longer th' wurruld lasts th' more books does be comin' out.
Day be day I r-read in th' pa-apers announcemints iv new publications
that look like th' dilinquent tax-list. They 's a publisher in
ivry block, an' in thousan's iv happy homes some wan is pluggin'
away at th' romantic novel or whalin' out a pome on th' type-writer
up-stairs. A fam'ly without an author is as contimptible as wan
without a priest. Is Malachi near-sighted, peevish, averse to th'
suds, an' can't tell whether th' three in th' front yard is blue
or green? Make an author iv him! Does Miranda prisint no atthractions
to th' young men iv th' neighborhood, does her overskirt dhrag,
an' is she poor with th' gas-range? Make an authoreen iv her!
Forchunitly, th' manly insthinct is often too sthrong f'r th'
designs iv th' fam'ly, an' manny a man that if his parents had had
their way might have been at this moment makin' artificial feet
f'r a deformed pome is l'adin' what me fri'nd Hogan calls a glad,
free, an' timperymintal life on th' back iv a sthreet-car.

"But lithrachoor is th' gr-reat life-wurruk iv th' modhren woman.
Th' conthrol is passin' into th' hands iv th' fair sect, an' th'
day will come whin th' wurrud book will mane no more to an able-bodied
man thin th' wurrud gusset. Women write all th' romantic novels
that ar-re anny good. That's because ivry man thinks th' thrue
hayroe is himsilf, an' ivry woman thinks he's James K. Hackett.
A woman is sure a good, sthrong man ought to be able to kill anny
number iv bad, weak men, but a man is always wondherin' what th'
other la-ad wud do. He might have th' punch left in him that wud
get th' money. A woman niver cares how manny men are kilt, but a
man believes in fair play, an' he'd like to see th' polis intherfere
about Chapter Three.

"Women writes all th' good romantic novels, an' read thim all.
If anny proud la-ad in th' gum business thinks he riprisints th'
ideal iv his wife's soul, he ought to take a look at th' books she
reads. He'll larn there th' reason he's where he is, is because
he was th' on'y chanst, not because he was th' first choice. 'Twud
humble th' haughtiest prince iv thrade to look into th' heart iv
th' woman he cares most f'r an' thinks laste about, an' find that,
instead iv th' photygraft iv a shrewd but kindly man with a thriflin'
absence iv hair on his head an' a burglar-proof safe on his
watch-charm, there's a pitcher iv a young la-ad in green tights
playin' a mandolin to a high front stoop. On th' stoop, with a
rose in her hand, is his lawful-wedded wife, th' lady Annamariar
Huggins iv Peotone. Ye can't keep her away fr'm a romantic novel.
No matther what Edward Atkinson tells ye, she prefers 'Th' Age iv
Chivalry' to th' mos' atthractive housewurruk. A woman's readin'
is niver done. Hardly a day passes but some lady frind iv mine
stops me on me way to catch a car, an' asks me if I don't regard
Morse Hewlett as th' gr-reatest an' mos' homicidal writer iv our
time, an' what I've got to say about Hinnelly's attack on Stevenson.
'Madam,' says I, 'I wud n't know Morse if I was to see him goin'
down th' sthreet ax in hand, an' as f'r Hinnelly, his name escapes
me, though his language is familiar to anny wan who iver helped
load a scow. Stevenson,' I says, 'does n't appeal to me, an' if
he shud, I'll revarse th' decision on th' ground iv th' bad prevyous
charackter iv th' plaintiff, while,' I says, 'admittin' th' thruth
iv what he said. But,' says I, 'th' on'y books in me libr'y is
th' Bible an' Shakspere,' says I. 'They 're gr-reat f'r ye,' says
she. 'So bully f'r th' style. D' ye read thim all th' time?' she
says. 'I niver read thim,' says I. 'I use thim f'r purposes iv
definse. I have niver read thim, but I'll niver read annything
else till I have read thim,' I says. 'They shtand between me an'
all modhren lithrachoor,' says I. 'I've built thim up into a kind
iv breakwather,' I says, 'an' I set behind it ca'm an' contint
while Hall Caine rages without,' says I.

"Yes, sir, th' readin' an' writin' iv books is as much woman's
wurruk as th' mannyfacther iv tidies. A woman is a nachral writer.
She don't mind givin' hersilf away if 't will bring a tear to th'
eye or a smile to th' lips. But a man does. He has more to give
away. I'm not sayin' that anny man can't write betther thin a
woman if he wants to. But so can he cuk betther, an' sew betther,
an' paint minichoors betther, an' do annything betther but nurse
th' baby--if he wants to; but he don't often want to. He despises
such thrivyal pursuits. Mos' iv th' gr-reat writers I iver see
th' pitchers iv was little, thin, peevish men that was always
gettin' licked. Wanst in a while a sthrong man got into th' game,
a bull-necked, round-headed man that might have made a fine
thrackmaster or boiler-maker, but was addicted to dhrink, an'
niver had energy enough left in th' mornin' f'r annything more
thin writin' th' best plays or th' finest novels or th' gr-reatest
histhries in th' wurruld. But if ye got at th' rale feelin' iv
three-meal-a-day men about writin', ye'd find they classed it with
preachin', school-teachin', play-actin', dancin', an' lace-wurruk.
A man iv that kind might start to write, but if he did, he'd stop
an' think afther a while, an' say to himsilf: 'What's a big, sthrong,
able-bodied, two-hundhred-an'-tin-pound, forty-four-acrost-th'-chest
crather like me doin' here, pokin' these funny hireyoglyphics into
a piece iv pa-aper with a little sthick? I guess I'll go out an'
shoe a horse.'

"So it is with readin'. I'm tol' I ought to read more be Hogan,
who's wan iv th' best-read an' mos' ignorant men I know. Well,
maybe I ought, though whin I was a young man, an' was helpin' to
build up this counthry, th' principal use iv lithrachoor was as
a weepin. In thim days, if a little boy was seen readin' a book,
his father took it away fr'm him an' bate him on th' head with it.
Me father was th' mos' accyrate man in th' wurruld with letthers.
He found th' range nachrally, an' he cud wing anny wan iv us with
th' 'Lives iv th' Saints' as far as he cud see. He was a poor
man, an' on'y had such books in his libr'y as a gintleman shud
take, but if ye'd give him libr'y enough, he'd capture Giberaltor.
If lithrachoor niver pinethrated me intelleck, 'twas not his
fault. But nowadays, whin I go down th' sthreet, I see th' childher
settin' on th' front steps studyin' a book through double-compound-convex
spectacles, lookin' like th' offspring of a profissyonal diver.
What'll they iver grow up to be? Be hivins! that la-ad Carnaygie
knows his business. He is studied th' situation, an' he undhersthands
that if he builds libr'ies enough an' gets enough people readin'
books, they won't be anny wan left afther a while capable iv takin'
away what he's got. Ye bet he didn't larn how to make steel billets
out iv 'Whin Knighthood was in Flower.' He larned it be confabulatin'
afther wurrukin' hours with some wan that knew how. I think he
must be readin' now, f'r he's writin' wan or two. 'Tis th' way
with a man who takes to readin' late in life. He can't keep it
down.

"Readin', me frind, is talked about be all readin' people as though
it was th' on'y thing that makes a man betther thin his neighbors.
But th' thruth is that readin' is th' nex' thing this side iv
goin' to bed f'r restin' th' mind. With mos' people it takes th'
place iv wurruk. A man doesn't think whin he's readin', or if he
has to, th' book is no fun. Did ye iver have something to do that
ye ought to do, but didn't want to, an' while ye was wishin' ye
was dead, did ye happen to pick up a newspaper? Ye know what
occurred. Ye didn't jus' skim through th' spoortin' intillygince
an' th' crime news. Whin ye got through with thim, ye read th'
other quarther iv th' pa-aper. Ye read about people ye niver heerd
iv, an' happenin's ye didn't undhersthand--th' fashion notes, th'
theatrical gossip, th' s'ciety news fr'm Peoria, th' quotations
on oats, th' curb market, th' rale-estate transfers, th' marredge
licenses, th' death notices, th' want ads., th' dhrygoods bargains,
an' even th' iditoryals. Thin ye r-read thim over again, with a
faint idee ye'd read thim befure. Thin ye yawned, studied th'
design iv th' carpet, an' settled down to wurruk. Was ye exercisin'
ye-er joynt intelleck while ye was readin'? No more thin if ye'd
been whistlin' or writin' ye-er name on a pa-aper. If anny wan
else but me come along they might say: 'What a mind Hinnissy has!
He's always readin'.' But I wud kick th' book or pa-aper out iv
ye-er hand, an' grab ye be th' collar, an' cry 'Up, Hinnissy, an'
to wurruk!' f'r I'd know ye were loafin'. Believe me, Hinnissy,
readin' is not thinkin'. It seems like it, an' whin it comes out
in talk sometimes, it sounds like it. It's a kind iv nearthought
that looks ginooine to th' thoughtless, but ye can't get annything
on it. Manny a man I've knowed has so doped himsilf with books
that he'd stumble over a carpet-tack.

"Am I again' all books, says ye? I'm not. If I had money, I'd
have all th' good lithrachoor iv th' wurruld on me table at this
minyit. I mightn't read it, but there it'd be so that anny iv me
frinds cud dhrop in an' help thimsilves if they didn't care f'r
other stimylants. I have no taste f'r readin', but I won't deny
it's a good thing f'r thim that's addicted to it. In modheration,
mind ye. In modheration, an' afther th' chores is done. F'r as
a frind iv Hogan's says, 'Much readin' makes a full man,' an' he
knew what he was talkin' about. An' do I object to th' pursuit
iv lithrachoor? Oh, faith, no. As a pursuit 'tis fine, but it may
be bad f'r anny wan that catches it."

The Law's Delays

"If I had me job to pick out," said Mr. Dooley, "I'd be a judge.
I've looked over all th' others an' that's th' on'y wan that suits.
I have th' judicyal timperamint. I hate wurruk.

"Ivrybody else is pushed an' hurrid in this tumulchuse age. Th'
business man has to get to th' bank befure it closes an' th' banker
has to get there befure th' business man escapes, an' th' high-priced
actor has to kill off more gradyates iv th' school iv actin' thin
iver he did, an' th' night editions iv th' pa-apers comes out
arlier ivry mornin'. All is rush an' worry. Kings an' imprors
duck about their jooties like bell-hops, th' pampered son iv luxury
at Newport is thryin' f'r a mile a minyit in his autymobill an'
th' on'y leisure class left in th' wurruld is th' judicyary. Mind
ye, Hinnissy, I'm not sayin' annything again' thim. I won't dhrag
th' joodicyal ermine in th' mud though I haven't noticed that manny
iv thim lift it immodestly whin they takes th' pollytical crossing.
I have th' high rayspict f'r th' job that's th' alternative iv
sixty days in jail. Besides, me boy, I invy thim.

"Somewhere a la-ad hits somewan on th' head with an axe or sinds
him a bunch iv proosic acid done up to look like candy. Maybe he
does an' maybe he don't; but annyhow that's what he's lagged f'r.
Th' polis are in a hurry to get to th' pool-room befure th' flag
falls in th' first race an' they carry th' case to th' gran' jury;
th' gran' jury indicts him without a thought or a suspicion iv ax
har-rd feelin', th' judge takes his breakfast on th' bench to be
there in time an' charges th' jury to be fair but not to f'rget
th' man done it, an' th' jury rayturns a verdict iv guilty with
three cheers an' a tiger. Th' pris'ner has hardly time to grab
up his hat befure he 's hauled off to his funeral obsequies, an'
th' onprejudiced public feels happy about it. I don't believe in
capital punishmint, Hinnissy, but 'twill niver be abolished while
th' people injye it so much. They 're jus' squarin' thimsilves
f'r th' rayvoltin' details whin wurrud comes that Judge Tamarack
iv Opolis has granted a stay iv proceedin's. Stays iv pro-ceedin's
is devices, Hinnissy, be which th' high coorts keep in form. 'Tis
a lagal joke. I med it up. Says Judge Tamarack: 'I know very
little about this ease excipt what I've been tol' be th' larned
counsel f'r th' dayfinse, an' I don't believe that, but I agree
with Lord Coke in th' maxim that th' more haste th' less sleep.
Therefore to all sheriffs, greetin': Fen jarrin' th' pris'ner till
ye hear fr'm us.'

"So th' pris'ner waits an' dhreams he 's a lightnin' rod an' th'
public waits an' ivrybody waits. Th' high coort is busy in its
way. Ivry two or three years it is discovered takin' a nap at a
county seat in th' corn belt, an' it hands down a decision f'r th'
defindant in a case f'r damages growin' out iv th' Shay rebillion.
Then it dhrops off again. Th' judge that thried th' case retires
to a well-arned job with a railrood comp'ny, th' jury has ceased
to look f'r their pitchers in th' pa-apers an' th' insurance
comp'nies insure young Cyanide's life f'r the lowest known premyum.
Occasionally a judge iv th' coort iv appeals walkin' in his sleep
meets another judge, an' they discuss matthers. 'How ar-re ye
gettin' on with th' Cyanide case, judge?' 'I'm makin' fair headway,
judge. I r-read part iv th' vardict iv th' coroner's jury las'
year an' nex' month whin th' fishin' is over, I expict to look
into th' indictment. 'Tis a puzzlin' case. Th' man is not guilty.'
'Well, good bye, judge; I'll see ye in a year or two. Lave me
know how ye're gettin' on. Pleasant dhreams!' An' so they part.
Th' higher up a coort is, th' less they see iv each other. Their
office hours are fr'm a quarther to wan leap years. Ye take a
lively lawyer that's wurruked twinty hours a day suin' sthrect
railrood comp'nies an' boost him onto a high coort an' he can't
think out iv a hammock. Th' more exalted what Hogan calls th'
joodicyal station, th' more it's like a dormitory. Th' years rowl
by an' th' tillygraft op'rator that's been expictin' to sind a
rush tillygram through young Cyanide sees his ohms an' his volts
mouldin' an' no wurrud comes fr'm th' coort iv appeals but th'
murmur iv th' chief justice discussin' th' nullification theery.
But wan day, th' decision is wafted down. 'Th' coort finds,' it
says, 'that th' vardict was conthry to th' law an' th' ividince.
We seen this fr'm th' first. It's as plain as th' nose on ye'er
face. Th' judge was prejudiced an' th' jury was ignorant. Th'
ividince wasn't sufficient to hang a cat. We revarse th' decision
an' ordher a new thrile that full justice may be done. We cannot
help remarkin' at this time on th' croolty iv subjectin' this
unforchnit man to all these years iv torture an' imprisonment with
a case again' him which we see at a glance durin' th' Mexican war
cud not shtand th' test iv th' law.'

"But whin th' decision is carried to th' pris'ner, th' warden says
'Who?' 'P. Cyanide,' says th' clark iv th' coort. 'He's not here,'
says th' warden. 'On consultin' me books, I find a man iv that
name left in th' year sivinty-wan.' 'Did he escape?' 'In a sinse.
He's dead.'

"So, Hinnissy, I'd like to be a judge iv a high coort, dhreamin'
th' happy hours away. No hurry, no sthrivin' afther immejet
raysults, no sprintin', no wan hollenin' 'Dooley J. hurry up with
that ne exeat,' or 'Dooley, hand down that opinyion befure th'
batthry gives out.' 'Tis th' thrue life iv aise an' gintlemanly
comfort. 'Tis wait till th' clouds rowl by; 'tis time was meant
for slaves; 'tis a long life an' a happy wan. Like th' Shamrock
II, th' coort acts well in stays but can't run befure th' wind.
A jury is f'r hangin' ivry man, but th' high coort says: 'Ye must
die, but take ye'er time about it an' go out th' way ye like.' If
I wanted to keep me money so that me gran'childher might get it
f'r their ol' age, I'd appeal it to th' supreme coort. Oh, th'
fine judge I'd make, f'r I can sleep annywhere, an' I'm niver
impatient f'r annywan to get his jooes."

"I don't see," said Mr. Hennessy, "why they have anny juries. Why
don't they thry ivry man before th' supreme coort an' have done
with it?"

"I have a betther way than that," said Mr. Dooley. "Ye see they'e
wurrukin' on time now. I wondher if they wudden't sthep livelier
if they were paid be th' piece."

Sherlock Holmes

Dorsey an' Dugan are havin' throuble," said Mr. Hennessy.

"What about?" asked Mr. Dooley.

"Dorsey," said Mr. Hennessy, "says Dugan stole his dog. They had
a party at Dorsey's an' Dorsey heerd a noise in th' back yard an'
wint out an' see Dugan makin' off with his bull tarryer."

"Ye say he see him do it?"

"Yis, he see him do it."

"Well," said Mr. Dooley, "'twud baffle th' injinooty iv a Sherlock
Holmes."

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?"

"He's th' gr-reatest detictive that iver was in a story book.
I've been r-readin' about him an' if I was a criminal, which I wud
be if I had to wurruk f'r a livin', an' Sherlock Holmes got afther
me, I'd go sthraight to th' station an' give mesilf up. I'd lay
th' goods on th' desk an' say: 'Sargeant, put me down in th' hard
cage. Sherlock Holmes has jus' see a man go by in a cab with a
Newfoundland dog an' he knows I took th' spoons.' Ye see, he ain't
th' ordh'nry fly cop like Mulcahy that always runs in th' Schmidt
boy f'r ivry crime rayported fr'm stealin' a ham to forgin' a check
in th' full knowledge that some day he'll get him f'r th' right
thing. No, sir; he's an injanyous man that can put two an' two
together an' make eight iv thim. He applies his brain to crime,
d'ye mind, an' divvle th' crime, no matther how cunnin' it is,
will escape him. We'll suppose, Hinnissy, that I'm Sherlock Holmes.
I'm settin' here in me little parlor wearin' a dhressin' gown an'
now an' thin pokin' mesilf full iv morpheen. Here we are. Ye come
in. 'Good-mornin', Watson.'"

"I ain't Watson," said Mr. Hennessy. "I'm Hinnissy."

"Ah," said Mr. Dooley; "I thought I'd wring it fr'm ye. Perhaps
ye'd like to know how I guessed ye had come in. 'Tis very simple.
On'y a matther iv observation. I heerd ye'er step; I seen ye'er
refliction in th' lookin' glass; ye spoke to me. I put these
things together with me thrained faculty f'r observation an'
deduction, d'ye mind. Says I to mesilf: 'This must be Hinnissy.'
But mind ye, th' chain iv circumstances is not complete. It might
be some wan disguised as ye. So says I to mesilf: 'I will throw
this newcome, whoiver he is, off his guard, be callin' him be a
sthrange name!' Ye wudden't feel complimented, Hinnissy, if ye
knew who Watson is. Watson knows even less than ye do. He don't
know annything, an' annything he knows is wrong. He has to look
up his name in th' parish raygisther befure he can speak to himsilf.
He's a gr-reat frind iv Sherlock Holmes an' if Sherlock Holmes
iver loses him, he'll find him in th' nearest asylum f'r th'
feeble-minded. But I surprised ye'er secret out iv ye. Thrown
off ye'er guard be me innocent question, ye popped out 'I'm
Hinnissy,' an' in a flash I guessed who ye were. Be th' same
process iv raisonin' be deduction, I can tell ye that ye were home
las' night in bed, that ye're on ye'er way to wurruk, an' that
ye'er salary is two dollars a day. I know ye were at home las'
night because ye ar-re always at home between iliven an' sivin,
bar Pathrick's night, an' ye'er wife hasn't been in lookin' f'r
ye. I know ye're on ye'er way to wurruk because I heerd ye'er
dinner pail jingle as ye stepped softly in. I know ye get two
dollars a day because ye tol' me ye get three an' I deducted
thirty-three an' wan third per cint f'r poetic license. 'Tis very
simple. Ar-re those shoes ye have on ye'er feet? Be hivins, I
thought so."

Simple," said Mr. Hennessy, scornfully; "'tis foolish."

"Niver mind," said Mr. Dooley. "Pass th' dope, Watson. Now bein'
full iv th' cillybrated Chow Sooey brand, I addhress me keen mind
to th' discussion iv th' case iv Dorsey's dog. Watson, look out
iv th' window an' see if that's a cab goin' by ringin' a gong. A
throlley car? So much th' betther. Me observation tol' me it was
not a balloon or a comet or a reindeer. Ye ar-re a gr-reat help
to me, Watson. Pass th' dope. Was there a dog on th' car? No?
That simplifies th' thing. I had an idee th' dog might have gone
to wurruk. He was a bull-tarryer, ye say. D'ye know annything
about his parents? Be Mulligan's Sloppy Weather out iv O'Hannigan's
Diana iv th' Slough? Iv coorse. Was ayether iv thim seen in th'
neighborhood th' night iv th' plant? No? Thin it is not, as manny
might suppose, a case iv abduction. What were th' habits iv
Dorsey's coyote? Was he a dog that dhrank? Did he go out iv nights?
Was he payin' anny particular attintions to anny iv th' neighbors?
Was he baffled in love? Ar-re his accounts sthraight? Had Dorsey
said annything to him that wud 've made him despondent? Ye say no.
He led a dog's life but seemed to be happy. Thin 'tis plainly not
a case iv suicide.

"I'm gettin' up close to th' criminals. Another shot iv th' mad
mixture. Wait till I can find a place in th' ar-rm. There ye
ar-re. Well, Watson, what d'ye make iv it?"

"If ye mane me, Dugan stole th' dog."

"Not so fast," said Mr. Dooley. "Like all men iv small minds ye
make ye'ers up readily. Th' smaller th' mind, th' aisier 'tis
made up. Ye'ers is like a blanket on th' flure befure th' fire.
All ye have to do to make it up is to lave it. Mine is like a
large double bed, an' afther I've been tossin' in it, 'tis no aisy
job to make it up. I will puncture me tire with th' fav'rite
flower iv Chinnytown an' go on. We know now that th' dog did not
elope, that he didn't commit suicide an' that he was not kidnaped
be his rayturnin' parents. So far so good. Now I'll tell ye who
stole th' dog. Yisterdah afthernoon I see a suspicious lookin'
man goin' down th' sthreet. I say he was suspicious lookin' because
he was not disguised an' looked ivry wan in th' face. He had no
dog with him. A damning circumstance, Watson, because whin he'd
stolen th' dog he niver wud 've taken it down near Dorsey's house.
Ye wudden't notice these facts because ye'er mind while feeble
is unthrained. His coat collar was turned up an' he was whistlin'
to himsilf, a habit iv dog fanciers. As he wint be Hogan's house
he did not look around or change his gait or otherwise do annything
that wud indicate to an unthrained mind that there was annything
wrong, facts in thimsilves that proved to me cultivated intilligence
that he was guilty. I followed him in me mind's eye to his home
an' there chained to th' bed leg is Dorsey's dog. Th' name iv th'
criminal is P. X. O'Hannigan, an' he lives at twinty-wan hundhred
an' ninety-nine South Halsted sthreet, top flat, rear, a plumber
be pro-fission. Officer, arrest that man!

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